


Pasta and Dinner Parties

by thepencilnerd



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Draco Malfoy Is Whipped for Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, Draco Malfoy is a Good Boyfriend, Draco Malfoy is a Little Shit, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Heavy Angst, Hermione Granger Needs a Hug, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Meet the Family, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Scars, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, blaise and theo argue about pasta, more like meet the flatmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:49:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29917176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepencilnerd/pseuds/thepencilnerd
Summary: "Edamame," Theo says."The fuck did you just call me?" Blaise’s face contorted quicker than a shifting boggart.Another eye roll. “The pasta, it’s made from edamame.” Theo pronounces it with a certain twinge of pomposity that would have Percy Weasley reeling. Too many syllables. Vowels too lengthy. “Type of soybean, I reckon.”"IT'S NOT PASTA!" Blaise’s roar shook the walls of the foyer.Pansy snorts into her mug. “I don’t know about you, but I think this dinner will go swimmingly.”Draco and Hermione have reached a domestic milestone. They've finally decided to move in together. Draco invites her over for dinner, but what would a little Slytherin hospitality be without some sugar and spice?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini
Comments: 14
Kudos: 29





	1. Meet the Flatmates

"Luna sent a box of these over, wonderful isn't she?" If lovesick eyes had a picture to accompany the definition, Theodore Nott’s face would be front and center. In his left hand, he held an empty cardboard carton with a sticky note adhered to the front flap. 

_Simmer for 10 minutes with a sprig of rosemary and a teaspoon of salt. Keeps away the balfspracks._

Blaise rubs his eyes. It’s half-past five and he’s already had it with Theo. Had it. Patience wore down to the bone. Basta. Finite incantatem. In all honesty, he’d gladly throw himself in front of a flying—

A shorter figure crept up from behind. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she gives her boyfriend a peck on the cheek, which seems to loosen the wrinkles settling over his forehead. 

"Ladies," Pansy jests, mediating the arguments between the two as always. "I'm sure there's more than enough pasta to go around." 

"Not pasta," Blaise muttered. He tried to concentrate on the lingering warmth Pansy’s lips left on his face. The poor bloke sounded like he was about to hurl. 

At this, Theo rolled his eyes and waved dismissively. “Yes, yes, yes, you can flaunt your Italian heritage some other time, now let me work my culinary magic!” 

Blaise takes a deep breath. High blood pressure, he remembered Pansy saying. Need to stay calm. "Mate, I love you, I really do, but if you don't tell me what those green things swimming about in my favorite crockpot are, you have another thing coming."

"You used a crockpot to boil pasta?" Pansy’s head popped up from behind Blaise’s shoulder. Her nose wrinkled like she’d caught a whiff of something foul. 

“Not pasta.” Blaise was a broken record.

Draco groaned from the living room. The headache from earlier evolved into a full-blown migraine by the time lunch was over. His eyeballs were absolutely throbbing. He jammed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets as if it would relieve any of the aching. To no avail. 

"Granger's coming over in half an hour and we haven't even transfigured a dining table yet." He verbalized his misery in as simple terms as he could. Sitting on the living room couch, he calculated the farthest distance from the kitchen and found himself just a few feet away. Problem with having a small flat. He couldn't find it in himself to raise his voice. Not with the demon baby currently going stir-crazy with a gavel in his skull. 

He questioned his level of sobriety when he agreed to this.

Meeting Hermione Granger’s parents had been less stressful than this. 

Introducing her to his mother was a Christmas tree full of Christmas presents compared to this. 

Sitting in a train compartment with 2nd-year Hufflepuffs sounded more bearable than this. 

Why, oh why, did he have to open his big mouth that night? 

* * *

“Seems proper that I’d at least get to share dinner with them before we move in together,” Hermione shrugged. Her hair was still damp from her— _their_ —shower. Stray curls escaped, framing the curves of her face. Draco loved how her sheets always smelled like her soap. The scent of her shampoo was reserved for the pillowcases. 

“Come over for dinner,” he suggested. Quite impulsively, really. “Allow me to treat you to an evening of... Slytherin hospitality.” Draco’s trademark grin served him well. Resting on his side, Draco was propped up on one elbow with no shirt and sheet draped over his bottom half. She wanted to believe he was wearing briefs underneath. He looked absolutely wicked. 

Hermione scowled tentatively but surrendered with a smile. Her chest rose before she let out a sigh. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I’d experienced an inkling of _that_ before.” Mirth graced her tone. 

The embers from the fireplace bounced off of her bare skin like rays of summer sun; warm and welcoming. Draco’s fingers fondled the strap of her bra, the only thing she was wearing, and earned a breathy giggle from her. Tugging the lace down, he sat up and started pressing a trail of kisses along her skin. Goosebumps erupted where his lips traced her flesh. The bath had stained her skin; she tasted of rosewater and honey. 

Hermione let out a hmph and tried to focus on the book she was holding. She developed a knack for knowing when he craved attention. Whenever Draco came over, he turned into a literal child. Always nagging and begging for her every time he got the chance. If she wasn’t superglued to his side, Hermione would bet a million galleons he’d throw a fit. 

“Turn around and face me instead. I don’t fancy being smothered by your hair while we sleep.” 

“How do you turn on the stove?”

“Granger, help me fix the antenna!” 

“Could you take a look at this spot on the back of my head? I might be balding.” 

“Granger, I think I nicked myself on the aluminium.” 

“If _you_ weren’t wearing so many clothes, _we’d_ probably warm up faster. Becoming a pair of popsicles isn’t exactly on my bucket list.” 

This time around, his demands were very clear. 

“Pay attention to me.” 

Hermione’s eyes shot up from her book. Shock painted her features like a splash of cold water. 

She blinks once. Twice. Three times for good measure. And then, her lips break into a blinding smile, pearly whites and all. The corners of her eyes curl into half-moons and her whole body shakes with glee. 

Sweet Merlin, he was fucked. 

Setting her book down on the nightstand, Hermione sits up straight and looks at Draco expectantly. He sits unmoved beside her. Staring. Admiring. Waiting. The cheeky grin that etches into her face is one Draco would give the world to see every day. 

Draco leans back against the headboard and stretches his legs out towards the foot of the bed. Scooching closer to her, she flips her leg over his awaiting lap. She’s straddling him in the span of two seconds. The feel of her bare flesh against his is utter bliss. 

Her arms wrap around his neck like a koala bear and her head nestles into the crook of his neck. Despite lathering him in her soap, he still smelled like Draco. All these years of dating and she still couldn’t put her finger on the bevy of aromas. 

Draco mirrors her actions like a reflection, one and the same. His arms make her feel so incredibly small when encased in them. Like a bear cub. Or a kangaroo in a pouch. Maybe mammals would be an appropriate term to generalize how warm and safe she felt in his embrace, but it wasn’t the most attractive or poetic—

“I thought we finished showering earlier,” he sighs into her hair. “Why is there steam coming off your head?”

She blows a puff of air into his neck and he jolts at the sensation. Ticklish. Draco knew that secret would die with Hermione and she was honored to keep it. Unless it served her in times of duress. 

“I was just thinking about how safe I am when I’m with you.” The tip of her nose brushes against the junction above his throat and feels his heartbeat, delicate but strong. 

_Da-dum._

_Da-dum._

_Da-dum._

Pulling back, he slides his left hand along her cheek and she leans into it like second nature. Hermione raises her right hand and cradles it over his. The way it pales in proportion almost makes him break into laughter. When she presses open-mouthed kisses down his bare wrist, Draco resists the urge to take her right then and there. It’s too perfect of a moment to ruin. Not tonight. 

She’s even more tender when her lips reach his scar. The marred flesh that takes him back to his inescapable past. A reminder of everything wrong he’s been taught since childhood; everything bad in this world; everything wrong he’s done throughout his entire life. 

But more importantly, it’s a symbol of how much good was left in this dismal world. 

It’s a battle scar that reminds him that he lived.

Something that motivates him to keep trying. 

A reminder of how despite being swallowed by the darkness that plagued the world, he chose to hold onto light. 

A reminder of how above everything, he chose Hermione and Hermione chose him. 

He takes a moment to look at her, _really_ look at her, and melts. 

Hermione is a vision actualized. He sees the dreams and aspirations swirl about her irises in flickers. Roaming freely and always there when you needed them. He wants to bask in them. Relish in them. In her. For as long as she’ll keep him, no matter how infinitely small or finitely large. He’d burn through galaxies if it meant seeing her happy and safe. Anything and everything he could provide for her was his to offer. She need only ask. 

Draco Malfoy was wholly and irrevocably head over heels for Hermione Granger.

Magic and might, save him. 

No really, save him.

What the bloody hell was that infernal yapping? 

"I, for one, thought it would be better to go to an Italian restaurant, but Blaise here," Theo quipped. “—wanted to dish out his non-existent cooking skills,” He paused to stir the pot. “At least Luna was kind enough to—”

Blaise stomped his foot on the kitchen tiles. Miracle they hadn’t cracked yet. There was no point in trying to hide his tantrum. “Just because my ancestors were Italian doesn’t mean I’m a master chef!” He narrows his eyes. “Honestly Theo—” The words die in his throat when Theo fishes out a noodle from the pot. Maybe it’s just his eyes playing tricks on him but he swears it flipping _wiggles_. “What in Merlin’s great magical kingdom is that abomination and why the ever-loving fuck is it green?” 

Pansy gave his cheek a pat. “Colorful, Blaise.Truly.” 

"Edamame," Theo says. 

"The fuck did you just call me?" Blaise’s face contorted quicker than a shifting boggart. 

Another eye roll. “The pasta, it’s made from edamame.” Theo pronounces it with a certain twinge of pomposity that would have Percy Weasley reeling. Too many syllables. Vowels too lengthy. “Type of soybean, I reckon.” 

"IT'S NOT PASTA!" Blaise’s roar shook the walls of the foyer. 

Pansy snorts into her mug. “I don’t know about you, but I think this dinner will go swimmingly.” 

A crash echoes from the kitchen and Theo lets out a screech that rivals grindylows. 

Pansy takes a long, calm sip. Likely pumpkin juice. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if it were laced with some pre-appetizer spirits. How she managed to deal with Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum was beyond him. Hell, _he_ needed some right about now. At least to dial down the nerves. Not to mention the spike in blood pressure provoked by his flatmates. 

The remaining minutes pass like clockwork and before he knows it, the front door dings. Never has a bell sounded more menacing than now. Why is he so nervous? She’s met them a few times before and they’ve definitely shared rounds of drinks. No doubt, gone to Diagon Alley with Parkinson, Lovegood, and Weasley. The tolerable one. 

Did he clean his room? 

Theo promised to dust right after tea but the bloke was delusional about everything _except_ Lovegood. A bit poetic, not that Draco ever cared to admit it. 

Pansy and Blaise stopped by the market yesterday and restocked the pantries and fridge. 

And then Luna dropped off her bag of goodies this morning. 

“She’s early.” Theo stuck his head out from the kitchen. Why was he covered in flour? 

So many questions. Draco didn’t even care to know the answers to half of them. 

“She’s always early when she’s excited.” 

The three stooges stand shell shocked and stare at Pansy. They just stare. 

She blinks like an owl and shakes her head. “Honestly, are you three just going to stand there or is someone’s _boyfriend_ going to get the door?” 

Draco’s brain registers the words too late for his liking. He’s dead sober but his brain is all fuzzy. Just as she’s about to knock for a second round, Draco’s feet propel him to the door so fast a whip of apparition cracks. 

The door clicks open to reveal a dazzling frame. Hermione Granger is, to say the least, an unreal figment of everything good in the world. War heroine, member of the Order of the Phoenix, magical, academic, and practical genius, pure in mind and soul, and his girlfriend. His girlfriend. _His_. Donning a pair of black leggings and a flowing cream blouse, she’s bundled in a beige trenchcoat and blush pink scarf. Dark mahogany brown ankle boots boost her height by a few centimeters. Draco still overshadows her by a good head or two. Nevertheless, it’s a thoughtful effort. She’s holding a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. 

“Hello—woah!’ 

Draco’s arms are around her instantly and she’s brought into the house. His broad shoulders envelop her into a cloaked embrace that lets his scent wash over her. He never wants to let go. 

Initially surprised at the abrupt shift in balance, Hermione relaxes into his hold within seconds. He still smells like her soap and Draco and… smoking?

“Blaise!” a female voice shrieks. “Don’t just stand there Theo, do something!” 

A cloud of smoke—contained by a bubble charm, thanks to Pansy—swirls above the stovetop, large and foreboding. The source? A deep green crockpot placed on one of the burners.

 _Wait. Why is a crockpot on the burner?_ Hermione wonders.

“I told you we needed to salt the water _and_ add the rosemary! Now you’ve got balfspracks all over the bloody place!” Theo’s voice changed from panic to mockery. He turned his nose upright and growled in a nasal tone. “‘Oh, salt is acceptable, but rosemary? Unacceptable. A disgrace to all cuisine Italian. May as well—’”

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. By the end of the day, he’d probably have to ask Hermione to heal the bruises. “Bloody hell…” 

“Oh, it’s my fault now, is it?” Hermione realizes Blaise’s name suits him very well. Almost too well. In any other life, he might have been sorted into Gryffindor with that fiery temperament. “Next time we have a guest over, we’re ordering take-out. From Hogsmeade!” 

“Someone help me get rid of this burnt pot of—whatever the hell pasta Theo was making,” Pansy gags while trying to contain the swelling bubble. The scent is overwhelming. Something between seaweed and polyjuice. Perhaps a vile mixture of the two. 

“EDAMAME!” 

“NOT PASTA!” 

Draco can’t tell whether he wants to burst into laughter or cry. Maybe he’ll do both. Hermione was there to wipe away the snot or tears, regardless of whichever it would end up being. 

Giving him a chase kiss, Hermione placed the gifts in his hands and made her way to the lounge. Draco was going to kill them. He was going to kill them dead. 

She pulled out her want and raised it towards the giant orb of smoke, confidence igniting her eyes. Her wand moved as if it were on its own, guided purely by magic and intent with an undeniable essence of Hermione. She draws a broad circle that covers the entire room and summons the wisps of smoke like a magnet. The ashy tendrils of burnt food claw their way out of the floorboards and ceiling cracks, latching on for as long as they can before they’re drawn out Aiming towards the ajar door, the coils of smoke and singe are thrown out the entrance with a deafening gust. 

A single strand of hair falls out of her ponytail. 

She blows it out of her eyes with a single, deliberate puff. 

The corner of her lip quirks upwards the slightest. 

It’s so fast you’d miss it if you blinked. 

If Draco wasn’t so overcome with the urge to skin his friends, he’d dive in there right now and kiss her numb. 

The flat has returned to an atmosphere of calm. 

“Fucking finally,” Draco mutters out loud. Not intentionally but he doesn’t regret it one bit. 

Pansy, Theo, and Blaise resemble owls; wide eyes, unmoving bodies, twitching necks that swivel side to side. 

Theo breaks the silence with something along the lines of a chortle. “Welcome to our humble abode, Granger.” 

“Pleasure to have you here,” Blaise adds. His hands are still on Theo’s shirt collar. 

Pansy is still trying to catch her breath having inhaled a hefty amount of the fumes. Blaise and Theo had probably tumbled around the living room enough to avoid the thick of it. Still, she refuses to let it impede on her hostess abilities. 

“Hermione!” Pansy coughs. “Why don’t you and Draco check out upstairs while—” she pauses to glare daggers at the two boys covered in God knows what, “— _we_ deal with the mess down here.” 

Hermione draws out the excess smoke from Pansy’s clothes and hair with a swish of her wand. The next thing she does makes the three boys’ jaws unhinge. They bring each other into a warm hug and laughter rings in the air. 

“It’s good to see you too, Pans,” Hermione breathes. Draco was definitely going to have a fit over this later.

Hermione gives Theo and Blaise a shy wave. Hopefully, they’d understand. In any other instance, she’d be more than happy to rid their clothes of the stench. They wouldn’t even have to ask. But this was Pansy Parkinson and if Hermione knew Pansy Parkinson, she knew that the Slytherin would want to drag on punishment as long as possible before even thinking of succumbing to forgiveness. 

Hermione Granger’s stubbornness coupled with her Gryffindor loyalty? 

She’ll be damned if she lets either waver when surrounded by friends. 

Draco clears his throat forcefully and offers his arm. “Upstairs then, shall we?” 

Hermione loops her arm through his and grins. It’s contagious and Draco already feels his anger ebb into affection. 

She speaks almost as lightheartedly as the wand movement for a levitation charm. "We shall." 

* * *


	2. Love Thy Neighbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: graphic description of nightmares, PTSD, flashbacks to the war, a heavier chapter.

The place Draco shared with his fellow Slytherins was nothing extraordinary. In fact, it was exceedingly ordinary and painfully undecorated. While he’d spend almost four years in the dingy, beat-up three-bedroom flat, they never settled on whether to re-paint the walls, move the hanging lights, or hang up some art. For that ‘cozy’ home feel. 

The one time Theo brought home a 4-by-4-foot painting done by Luna was the last time they ever brought the topic up for discussion. 

Apparently, the spell for animating portraits wasn’t limited to human subject matter. 

Purple pygmy puffs with blue fangs and orange highlights were huddled around a knight’s roundtable and a single jar was placed in the center. An empty jar, to be more specific. Located in the midst of what looked like the Forest of Dean, the image was a never-ending cycle of the puffs attacking one another and taking turns trying to stuff the other into the jar. Theo said it captured the essence of humankind’s battle with morality and the need to capture beautiful things, no matter how cruel or inhumane the cost.

Needless to say, they looked particularly voracious. While Theo was rambling on about the painting, the three remaining housemates looked at each other with utter concern in their eyes. 

Blaise and Draco held back a distressed Theo while Pansy ran upstairs with it to Theo’s room. 

“So that’s why we don’t really have any decorum,” Draco explained. Guiding Hermione down the narrow hallway, they finally made it to the door of Draco’s room. He almost sighed in relief but it quickly turned into that familiar sense of panic the moment her fingers touched the doorknob. 

With a creak, the door opened to reveal a very un-Draco-like bedroom.

Hermione didn’t know what to expect, but let’s just say that baby blue walls weren’t on the top of her list. The room was tidier than expected and an odd, warm, floral scent—

“Are those—” Hermione’s voice came out a touch louder than she intended. “Are those _my_ blankets?” 

Draco’s eyes immediately flew over to his bed. To be more specific, his _Gryffindor red sheets and pillowcases_ and his stomach felt like it caved in on itself. He locked his arms around Hermione’s small frame in a flash before turning her exactly 180° away from the area of confirmed suspicion. 

“Draco—” she pushed him off and tried to turn back around but he kept her encased in his arms. 

Chuckling nervously, his hands came up to the sides of her face and peppered her face with kisses, making sure to pull off with a ‘pop’ each time his lips left her skin. Eventually, Hermione yielded to his means of distraction in a bout of giggles. 

When she finally regained the strength to pull back, she clutched his cheeks and looked into his eyes. He felt it burn little fires into his soul. Firelight. His eyes flickered back and forth between her lips and eyes. Just as he was about to lean in, she used the moment of distraction as her perfect opportunity for escape. The suddenness made his body lurch forward. 

Hermione spun around and jumped face-first onto the bed. Relishing the feeling of the soft fabric against her face, she could make out the familiar scent of her laundry detergent. And a hint of her perfume—

“ _Draco_!”

With a shriek, Draco mimicked Hermione’s actions and landed beside her with a soft thunk.

His arms found Hermione’s body like magnets. One of his arms came looped around to cradle the back of her head while the other slung over her waist. She entwined her legs between his and nestled herself into his chest. She inhaled deeply. Cologne, detergent, and Draco. He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head and let the scent of wildflowers wash over him. 

It was moments like these that made Draco thank his psychotic blood-purist ancestors for the hefty inheritance money. Money to spoil Granger, himself, his friends, Granger a bit more, and not to mention his newest investment. 

He knew buying that pensieve was a good idea. The best idea. Bloody brilliant. 

If their friends walked in on them right now, Draco would Obliviate them without so much as a bat of an eyelash. For privacy reasons, of course, but more so because he wanted to keep these memories limited to strictly himself and Hermione. 

She heard his heartbeat thump through the plush knit of his jumper. Pressing herself closer into his body, he hummed in content and ran his fingers through her hair. Her curly, beautiful, unruly, uncontrollably thick, and luscious hair. He loved her hair. 

“Draco,” Hermione murmured, plucking the stray pieces of lint that were scattered on his chest. 

“Hmph,” he mumbled. 

A pause. “Exactly when and how did you manage to _steal my bedsheets_?” 

His hands froze mid-brushing. 

He clears his throat when the nerves grow especially large, a habit Hermione picked up long ago. “I uh—”

Hermione slips out a breathy chuckle but doesn’t interrupt. She nudges him with her shoulder, a silent command to continue raking his fingers through her locks. Sometimes she mused whether the action soothed him more than her. 

Resuming his ministrations, he tried piecing together suitable words. 

Merlin, her Gryffindor was rubbing off on him and he hated every bit of it.

But only because it made him realize how many years he’d thrown away being a complete coward.

“I missed having something that smells like you because it reminds me of you when you’re not here.” The words came out in a jumble and his tongue felt too slow for his brain. 

Her fingers halted. 

Was he growing more into a lion or had she transformed into a snake? 

She looked up and met his gaze. It always amazed her how cold his eyes were but they still managed to burn more fervently than any sun. 

“You could’ve just asked for a shirt or something…” Murmuring, she felt a pink flush bloom over her cheeks and she tucked her head down. 

He rolled his eyes and bit back a smile. “Well,” he sighed. Grasping her chin, he tipped her head back to meet her eye-line, courage filling his blood like liquid fire. “I can’t exactly wear any of _your_ shirts after procuring said clothing, can I? Unlike some of us...” he trailed off with a smirk. She wanted nothing more than to wipe it off with a kiss. Perhaps a pinch to the side for good measure. 

Hermione blinked twice before her eyes grew. “I don’t—if you’re accusing me of stealing your clothing, I can assure you, formal attire certainly isn’t a priority for my occupation. Also, as if I could fit into your dress shi—”

Draco lifted a finger and pressed it against her lips. “Honestly, Granger. You mean to tell me that you haven’t once—” he tsked when she opened her mouth to speak again, “—stole an article of my clothing and proceeded to wear it for personal use?”

Her mouth retracted close and she pressed her lips into a thin line. Caught red-handed. 

She glued her focus to the frayed patch of wool on his jumper. That familiar heat rushed up to her face again and this time, it spread down her neck. Another sly grin crept across Draco’s face. 

This one was formed from endearment and adoration. 

“Perhaps I miss you when you’re not there, as well.” 

She never looked up as the words left her lips, instead choosing to keep her eyes deadset on the clump of lint that would not bloody—

Draco grasped her chin with his forefingers with the swiftness and precision of a lightning strike. 

If given the option, Hermione would gladly choose to live the rest of her days locked in the seas of grey that swirled about Draco Malfoy’s irises. They were tinted with the kind of opalescence that made you think of stars; a sky littered with the lot of them but mulled over with a mist of clouds. They were there, and even though you couldn’t see them clearly, they still glimmered and twinkled. Almost as if they were blinking, breathing, and speaking amongst each other. A secret message unbeknownst to any mortal. 

“Safe to say our flat will have a strict ‘no-clothing when no guests are present’ policy enacted immediately, correct?” Draco teased. His tone was too sincere for her liking. Too sincere indeed. 

Hermione’s eyes lit up. How could she forget? Scrambling up and off the bed, she sat up so quickly she almost broke Draco’s nose again. 

"Draco," Hermione mumbled against his chest before looking up. Her fingers swiped over the baby hairs that fell into his eyes. Tender. Soft. She studied them, those gunmetal grey eyes she loves to a fault, and smiled lightly. 

Draco’s eyes grew wide and worry colored them. “What is it? What’s wrong? Something’s happened. What is it?” 

Hermione’s eyes swelled to match his, but her’s were filled with confusion. Her brows stitched together for a moment. “Nothing’s wrong, what do you mean?”

Draco stood up and began pacing. Hermione observed with nothing short of stupefaction. Her mind wandered. So _that’s_ where the spell came from. 

The room was quite cozy and did a disservice to his long legs. “There are only three—” he held up three fingers and flashed them to her face to emphasize his point. She went cross-eyed at the proximity. “—cases in which you are ever this sappy with me.” 

Hermione raised her brow. “Sappy?” 

“One, we’ve just had mindblowing sex wherein I have successfully made you finish on my tongue to the point of seizing, and you and I are both high off of adrenaline or dopamine or whatever Muggle neurotransmitter you call it—”

Her jaw flopped open and her face burned Gryffindor red. She clamped her hand over his mouth so hard it knocked his teeth. So hard they both fell back onto the mattress with a dull thunk. Her mind immediately goes to Professor McGonagall’s epigram: babbling, bumbling band of baboons. 

She would take the baboon over rambling Draco any day. 

But secretly she’d choose uncontrollably horny Draco over anything else. 

“Do you mind keeping your potty mouth to a minimum?” she chastised in a seething whisper. If she clenched her teeth any harder, her parents would never let her hear the end of it. “We’re still among guests.” She was a spitting image of his mother when she scolded him as a tike. 

Merlin, he thought, she was already bringing honor to the Malfoy name and he hadn’t even proposed yet. 

Draco laced his hands behind his neck and shrugged nonchalantly. Beneath her palm, she felt the muscles of his mouth shift into a smirk. Prick.

Pulling her hand off of his mouth, Hermione kept a steady glare on him. Ever the Slytherin. 

“I re-do the silencing charms whenever you come over,” he assures. There’s still an undeniable brashness to the way he admits it so easily. 

Before she retaliated, he resumed speaking as if he wasn’t just tackled by a petite woman half his size. “Two,” he grins. “You’re positively pissed off of Firewhiskey then proceed to get all sentimental and lovey-dovey.” He raises a finger to proclaim his epiphany. “And _only_ Firewhiskey because Muggle whiskey makes you violent or depressed, one or the other. Never an in-between.” 

She frowned. Damn it all, he knew her well. 

He took a deep breath. “Three.” Grey eyes settle on hers. 

At that moment, both of their hearts sink into the pits of their stomachs. 

“You look at me that way after we come back from the nightmares.” 

Red. All Draco sees is red. There is too much blood. Enough to drown the world in oceans of it. There’s so much of it. He feels it crawl up his arms like spider webs, latching onto his flesh like cement and suffocating him with each additional weave. He is waist-deep in it and the level only rises. With it follows an onslaught of bodies. Some he recognizes. Other’s he’s repressed so deeply into his subconscious, they’re nothing but shadows and shapes drawn of regret. 

Soon the burgundy vines make their way up to his chest. A small island comes into his field of vision. On it, the lifeless body of Hermione with her wrist dangling on the edge, bloodied, beaten, and bruised black. He cries out her name but can’t speak. His mouth is flooded with the metallic pang of what can only be one thing. 

She moves her mouth to say something but nothing comes out. A manic cackle rips through the rust-tinted sky. Hermione’s mouth keeps moving and Draco tries, with all his might, to swim to her. 

Red. 

The color of life and death.

_“Draco.”_

Blood.

Thicker than water. 

_“Draco.”_

Pain. 

His vision brims with it.

_“Draco, come back.”_

He tries to pry his lips open. Maybe to speak. Maybe to breathe. To scream or wail. 

_“Draco, come back to me.”_

It always felt like drowning. Draco took in as much air as he could and held his breath for as long as possible. Fighting against the pressure, he pushed on until reaching the bottom of the darkest depths he sought to conquer. Swimming back up, he felt his lungs running out of oxygen. Then, just as he was about to break the surface and taste sweet air, he hit a wall.

Sometimes it was a clear wall of ice, baiting him just enough to endure it until the ice shattered. Other times, it was an opaque concrete slab, unyielding and with no end in sight. He was stuck in that constant state of in-between. Limbo. That millisecond before he could gulp lungfuls of air and with enough air to prevent his lungs from flooding with water. Not technically drowning but not exactly breathing either. Not alive and not dead. 

With a violent thrash, he jolted awake and sat up, a hand clamped on his forehead and eyes pressed shut. 

For some reason, he was able to break through the concrete wall this time. 

The reason? 

Hermione, of course. 

Her voice fills his ears, soothing and calming like a lullaby. She raises her hand slowly to his face as if approaching a wounded animal. Cupping his cheek, her thumb swept his cheekbone. Red and damp with sweat and tears. 

At least it wasn’t blood this time. There were some incidents when he’d scratch his arm in the midst of a nightmare. He’d tear and scrape at it until it was raw and didn’t stop until Hermione shook him awake. The days he hated himself the most was when he awoke to find her stained with it. 

That cursed, foul, wretched arm that bore the mark branded into his skin so many years ago… All the pain caused by it. The suffering. Misery. So much death. 

Hermione’s other hand came up to his cheek and made him turn to face her. The second her umber eyes met him, her heart splintered. 

It would be a bold-faced lie if anyone claimed they couldn’t see the torment clouding his eyes. 

Draco tried to pry her hands off. He shakes his head vigorously until he sees stars and his chest rises and falls at a worrying pace. He hated _anyone_ seeing him in this state, let alone the one person he cared about more than anything in this abysmal world. 

“Draco,” she whispered. Little did he know that she was biting back tears of her own. “Draco, look at me.” 

He jerks once more before the thrashing finally ceases. 

“Concentrate on the sound of my voice.” It’s been years and he’s yet to forgive himself. She tries, with all her power, to help him understand. To help him forgive himself. But some scars are too deep to heal entirely. 

“It’s not your fault.” Hermione knows what he blames himself for. “Draco, I need you to accept that it’s not your fault.” She wants to take his pain away. All of it. Even if it means _she’ll_ never be able to feel again. 

The silence is deafening. 

“I don’t deserve you.” 

Any quieter and it would’ve been a passing gust of wind in the night. 

“I don’t deserve you, Hermione. I don’t deserve anyone’s kindness, least of all yours. I can try spending the remaining days of my pathetic existence trying to prove how much I’ve changed and how much I love you—” he choked back his tears. Hermione’s hand drifted to his cheek. Turning to her, words failed to capture how much pain she felt at what came next. 

“I love you so much it hurts.” 

The storms in his eyes raged deeper than the dimensions of their color. They pierced her heart like pointed daggers. Pain. Sorrow. Regret. Pleading. Hermione leaned in to press her forehead against his. 

“I can’t imagine living in a world without you in it.” Draco’s hand came up to his chest and clenched it into a fist as his nails raked a star-shape into his moonlit skin. Her heart aches. 

Draco hangs his head like a lifeless puppet. He can’t bear the thought of her seeing him like this. “You’ve given me so much, Hermione. Everything I could ever ask for and more. You deserve the bloody fucking world, Hermione. You’re worth so much more than magic and I can’t—I can’t give you what you deserve.”

A blonde tress blurs his vision. Or maybe it’s the tears finally beginning to fall. “I would do absolutely anything and everything to make you happy, Hermione.” 

He’s said this before but none rang as tragic as they do now. When he pulls away, Hermione finds herself longing for the warmth only Draco can provide. Molten silver that colors his eyes; searing and intense. 

“I’m yours to break. And that fucking terrifies me.” 

Her vision goes blurry. A combination of her eyes being kept open for too long and the burst dam that held her tears. “Draco, I—”

“Hold me.” 

Hermione’s eyelids waver. 

“ _Please_.” 

And so she does with every single thread of fervency that runs through her veins. For a moment, they are nothing but a brief tangle of limbs. They search for each other in the dark, moonlit scape of Hermione’s room, feeling and grasping at every inch of skin they can just to let each other know—because they _need_ to know—that they’re alive. 

“I love you.” The words come from her this time.

Draco’s shoulders shake and a choked gasp escapes from somewhere deep in his chest. 

“I love you Draco and nothing will ever change that.” 

He shook his head again but Hermione refused to let him do this again. She wouldn’t let him break. Not while she was by his side. 

Draco’s eyes follow her as she stands up and walks around to his side of the bed. She steps between his knees and his head rests just above her stomach. Nestling into her like a puzzle piece, he wraps his upper half around her waist and squeezes. Just to know she’s there. He needs to make sure she’s real. 

Cradling his head, he let her fingers draw waves through his damp hair. His shoulders twitched from the shock. They probably would until the adrenaline flushed out of his system. 

On days when Hermione is the one plagued with nightmares, Draco does the same for her. Holding her as she grapples between the lines of reality and fantasy. Shaking her awake when he absolutely has to. Warding the room with protection enchantments so he can will them to glow if she asks if they’re secure. Murmuring into her ear to ease the endless stream of tears that sting her skin. 

Sensing his hesitation, Hermione lifts Draco’s head by placing one finger beneath his chin and tipping it up. Her touch feels like a cool spring against his blistering temperature. She sees his lip quiver, still trying his hardest to bite back tears. 

She places her hand around his and molds it to the bare skin of her stomach. 

It’s also where her biggest scar is. 

_“Contact comfort,” she remembered telling him one day. “Mothers and babies need skin-to-skin contact with one another right after delivery to improve physiological stability and support secure attachment.”_

When his hands don’t move and he averts her gaze, her hand presses his cheek and holds him securely in place. He needs to know. If he doesn’t look at her scars, he needs to look at _her_. 

Hermione drags his hand along the length of the raised flesh. The heat of his palm makes her skin flutter. 

She shifts to another scar just under her second rib cage. It’s not as large or dark but just as deep. The entire time, she made sure to keep her eyes steady on Draco, silently urging him to be there with her. 

When their fingers brushed over the scar on her left arm, the walls came crumbling down.

And Draco shatters. 

He cries out like a lost child. Sobbing, wailing, and mindlessly grabbing at Hermione to try and anchor him. 

The tears paint trails of wetness down her abdomen and land soundlessly on the carpet under their feet.

It feels as though his tears have no beginning, middle, or end. 

He cries for his mother and his father. For his family and friends. For the war and the everyone who died in vain. The children who were forced to fight in a war by elders who knew no better. 

His ruined childhood entrenched with a lifetime full of bigotry and ignorance. 

For the people he’s killed and the people _Hermione_ has killed. 

He cries for his 17-year old self who didn’t know any better and just wanted to live, and more for those who suffered the consequences. 

And she lets him. 

—because she’s the only one he can break around. 

—because she’s the one who’s there for him in the aftermath. 

Because of all the people in the world, she is the only one he trusts with his life to piece him back together again. 

“Draco. Please.” 

He summons the strength to finally lift his head 

“If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be here.” Hermione brings his hands into her chest and laces her small fingers through his. She cups their hands and whispers into them. 

“They wouldn’t be scars because I would be dead.” 

Another sob wrenched from his throat but she pressed on. He needed to know.

“I would have died that night. You saved me, Draco. _You._ ” 

Their hands tremble and Draco feels exposed. Utterly vulnerable.

“You risked your life to save mine, and I would love you all the same even if you hadn’t.” 

He sweeps her off of her feet and lifts her onto the bed. Lying under her, he presses himself into her body to try and stop the sobs that wrack his body. 

“You need to forgive yourself for what you can’t change and what’s out of your control. You fought for us,” she continues murmuring into his hair. “You fought for good and you fought for me.” 

Hermione’s lips trailed along his jaw. Her fingers brushed away his stray hairs. He’d never tire of her warm amber eyes. 

“But I love you because above all, you chose to stay and fight for _yourself_.” 

When his lips finally touch hers, he could only describe it with one word, and even that failed to capture just how perfect it was. 

Her. Only her. 

Forever. 

_Always._

* * *

“Draco…” Hermione’s gentle whisper brought him back to Earth. She placed a firm kiss on his lips. A kiss of assurance. “Nothing is wrong, I promise.” 

The lines on his face dissipated slightly, but he was still apprehensive. 

"The application went through." 

Without so much as another breath, Draco shot up from the bed and brought her into a bone-crushing hug. The squeal she let out was invigorating.

"We're moving out as soon as possible, I swear on Salazar Slytherin's grave." 

"You know they never found it, right?" Hermione quips. Of course, she would. During one of the happiest moments of his life, _she_ would be the only one to bring out her walking encyclopedia of a brain. 

“Granger, you know I love you and that brain of yours more than anything, but please.” He clamped his teeth on her pulse point and made her yelp.”Stuff it and hold me.” 

After capturing her in his clutches once more, a few much-needed moments of silence pass. It’s completely quiet and Draco has never been more grateful for silencing charms in his life.

She voices her protest in the form of a running joke. “Don’t you think it’s time to start addressing me by my first name now, Draco? We are moving in together after all.” 

“Nope. Only for special occasions.” His eyebrows raise up and down in an animated manner to compliment the last two words. Hermione laughs giddy and gives his shoulder a gentle shove. 

She knit her eyebrows together tightly. “Why?”

The signature Malfoy grin jets across his face. “Because your last name won’t be Granger for much longer and I intend on savoring your maiden name for as long as I possibly can.” 

Hermione tended to blink rapidly when faced with the incomprehensible. 

“Was that—Draco—” she puckered her lips like a fish. “You—did you just pro—”

Magic and might, did the door burst open at the perfect time. 

As the universe would have it, the two were splayed on top of each other in the most compromising of positions. 

Theo’s echo of triumph resonated throughout the room and its pastel blue walls. “Who wants pasta?” 

Two heads popped out from behind the door frame akin to popcorn kernels. 

“Oh looky here,” Pansy cooed with a click of her tongue and a long-drawn whistle. “Our two favorite lovebirds…” 

Blaise perched his elbow on her shoulder and wore a smirk that rivaled Draco’s.

“You know, babies usually come after the honeymoon but good on your for fighting the norm—”

The straw that broke the camel’s back. 

A pillow went flying headfirst towards Blaise. “GET OUT!” Draco’s roar was loud enough to make a lion tremble. 

The pillow ended up hitting Theo, who was the only one who shrunk in terror and bolted down the stairwell. Blaise and Pansy snorted and had matching smiles. 

Hermione didn’t think embarrassment could be listed as a cause of death but Morgana help her if she’d be the first in history to accomplish that. 

The edges of Pansy’s lips curled even more until they resembled the Cheshire Cat’s simper. 

“Dinner’s in twenty, see you downstairs and please,” she paused when Hermione and Draco’s mouths went agape simultaneously. “Take your sweet time.” 

Blaise gave Draco a wink. Hermione handed him the other pillow but Blaise was already halfway down the hall. Any faster and his feet would’ve burned holes into the wood. 

When the door slammed shut, the seething Slytherin glanced over to see a crimson-faced Gryffindor. 

Hermione was smothering herself under a bundle of blankets. Better suffocation than cordial humiliation. 

With a faceful of bed sheets, she could only mutter somewhat coherently. “Draco.” 

He was busy listing out how many ways he could kill a person. Decapitation? Too messy. Strangulation? Too personal. Poisoned wine? Now that, he could settle on. It was the perfect plan. He’d wait until Friday when the four shared their weekly nightcap—

She might have been better off if she’d epoxied her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “Ihavetotellyousomethingaboutourneighbors.” 

Draco’s expression went from murderous snake to baffled Hippogriff.

Hermione’s face was no longer red. However, her lower lip was caught between her teeth, and the ends of her eyebrows were turned down, making her squint. A...grimace? 

“I know we loved the place as soon as the realtor showed us, but apparently because it’s a new building, there are a lot—and I mean _a lot_ —of new tenants who were drawn to the other units as well.” 

More rambling. Draco started to suspect Polyjuice. 

Hermione’s face tensed even more and she looked like someone had forced her to suck on a lemon wedge. “And apparently, since this building,” she gestured around his room, “is getting demolished…”

She didn’t need to finish her thoughts before Draco was erupting in red again. 

As if by cue, the sound of footsteps echoed from down the hallway and grew closer. 

“By the way,” the familiar voice sang with saccharine sweetness. Only one person managed to pull that off and lucky him, her charismatic partner in crime followed hot on her tail. 

“We’re _really_ looking forward to being neighbors, mate.” 

“So are Luna and I. Really great spot the developers chose. Center of London, right around the corner of Piccadilly—’

Their faces met the door with a bang followed by a collective ‘ow.’ Then a series of nasal cackles. 

Hermione tried to stifle her laughter by looking up to the ceiling and clamping her lips together. Her fingers came up to wipe the inner corners of her eyes and she sniffled. 

Then it exploded. 

The sound of her laughter flooded the room with what could only be described as pure light. Bells ringing, angels singing, baby laughter be damned. His favorite song was one composed of her laughter. It almost made the scowl on Draco’s face vanish. 

When she collected herself after a few minutes and a stomach ache, she dried her tears and patted the blanket. 

It goes without saying that this, indeed, turned his frown upside down. 

Their bodies melded together into a customary pose; his hands around her waist, her hands supporting his head, his nose buried in her scent, and their limbs enlaced in an unbreakable grip. 

They were okay. 

“Draco…” The sound of her heartbeat in tandem with the uttering of his name was his favorite lullaby. “I think we need to—hey!”

Rather than silence her with a spell or his devilishly good looks (that stopped working ages ago), he opted for a deep kiss. His mouth fit against hers perfectly. He tasted the spearmint toothpaste she loved. 

“More than enough time to talk about whatever you’d like once we break into our new flat, don’t you think?" 

A cheeky smile 

This was more than okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you noticed, I did add a third chapter... 
> 
> originally, I imagined THIS chapter going very differently and not being as dark, but I will be adding a bonus chapter revolving entirely around a girl's day at Hogsmeade featuring an unnamed Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and two Gryffindors :) 
> 
> kudos and reviews are coffee mugs that warm my heart <3

**Author's Note:**

> I had an unholy amount of fun writing this. Second part goes up soon!
> 
> kudos, comments, and reviews are cups of coffee that warm my heart ^^


End file.
